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Last month marked the 3-year anniversary of the most horrifying event of my life, and yet, the rollercoaster called life, just keeps on rolling. I was recently told by a Vedic astrologer, over Skype, that I’m a old Piscean soul. He was convinced from my chart, that it is not in my cards to have children in this lifetime, unless I have previously signed a contract with a soul, agreeing to bring it into this world. I’m searching the drawers of my DNA for this energetic handshake, but cannot locate its memory. In my desperation, I beat myself up for having the tendency to lose things.

He said that children are a beginning. I am here to complete.

A statement like that makes me wish I was living inside of a cartoon, could reach across the iridescent screen of my animated lop top to the other side of the matrix, and knock out the deliverer of this message. Slap him around at first, and then knock him back 10 ft with the big red glove that springs out of my small fist. I feel rage rise up in my tight diaphragm, and momentarily lose faith in the starry lights I love to observe on nights when the moon births herself anew. I curse this man, who knows nothing about my life or body, who does not have a clue about a woman’s longing for a child, who is not even Indian in this incarnation and yet prides himself as an expert in Indian astrology. But the seed has been planted, and I’m sure it’s GMO. My brain has been poisoned with this toxic doubt, re-opening a wound that has yet to heal.

I have been told again and again by witches and wizards of all walks of life, that my existence in this incarnation would be hard. That I am here to receive my P.h.D in life and conclude the cycles that have surely by now made me dizzy. I’ve had my moments of delight at these prophecies, imagining the withered crone fingers beneath my skin, awaiting the last beautiful sunset to turn into the still of winter darkness for good. I have felt proud of my growing pains, my battle scars, my birth marks, showing them off like a soldier who wears her shiny medals after surviving the bitter war. I have been known to think that this old twisted tree of a soul is ready to become food for all those little seedlings that are just beginning to sprout. I have felt drained, emaciated, and ancient. Experiencing humility in the deepest moments of arrogance.

These days, I long to be the very seedling that needs the old tree to die, and nourish the duration of my experience in this realm. I want to go through the cycles of existence, all over again. I want to be an Arian soul, a baby, bringing forth lineages of babies.

It’s like scratching at a scab that won’t heal but will hurt so good in all of its itchy discomfort. Because living these lives is worth it, even amidst their maddening complexities. Although I’m often tired of this game, and ready to rest, somewhere out there in the void, or wherever it is that the elders find their permanent place of refuge, I cannot stop playing. Won’t stop playing. I’d rather feel the devastating spectrum of breath’s embrace than experience numbness, or lack of existence altogether. To exist or not to exist? –that is the question.

I feel the grips of life’s paradox tearing me apart. With more understanding, a flow of confusion pours in; disorientation. Because minds are not meant to grasp reality. I’m holding on, to have something to let go of. If I end, will I begin once more?

Swinging on this perpetual pendulum is exhausting. It’s killing and enlivening me all at once, helping find joy in the hollows of pain. I resist it but am enticed by it. Push and pull – life and death alike.

How do I hold the contradictions of life, without losing my sanity? Or do I have to lose it to find it? Is the trick to transcend the ego that perceives and experiences duality? Or to claw at duality to comprehend its wholeness? How do I hold both vantage points? And Is that even possible?

It appears that this laughable irony is most pronounced somewhere within the empty space between my heart and soul. This mental mess is finding its way to the realms of emotions, physics, and spirit, creating extraordinary chaos. Posing questions and proposing answers. Do I follow my heart, the component that’s loyal, content, tamed, and wants to remain whole and protected? Or do I give way to my wild and unruly soul, the very part of me that seeks magic, and chases white rabbits, even down the most shadowy holes?

I don’t know if I believe in free will, or even that we have any choice. I can pretend that I am choosing my path, but deeply trust that my path has actually chosen me. That it’s all a part of my destiny. I am following a calling and embarking on a journey that embraces the darker sides of existence. I am leaving behind all that’s familiar, those whom I love, and in that, stepping away from what my dear heart longs to salvage and keep forever close. Instead, I’m about to board a plane and pursue that which has brought me the most misery in this lifetime, the very spark behind this blog. I am chasing the elixir of death, and listening to the call of the wild, against all better judgment.

The dis-ease of letting go is tormenting at best, but the surrender and trust that follows is the sweet nectar that my soul yearns to taste. And yet my mind and heart rebel, because control is the illusory necessity. If I listen to those aspects, I am haunted by fate and destiny. Is it my mapped out Piscean journey of completion?

Naturally I want it all. I want to have my cake and eat it too. But something’s gotta give. Or does it?